The Crow: Songs of Children
by Brian T. Wolf
Summary: When a fire destroyed his Orphanage, Dimitri died. Years after, a Crow, the messenger between both worlds, brought him back to set the wrong things right, to get justice for the souls that could not defend themselves. A fresh and tragic turn on The Crow.
1. Chapter 1

The Crow: Songs of Children

Detective Report: August 9th, 2005

Reporting Officer Jonathan Fuller

Subject: Fire at St. Helena's Orphanage

Description: The Detective arrived at the scene at nine o'clock. The fire was already in full force. Detective was the first one in, going through the door around the back, what was once the docking bay for the food deliveries. Already familiar with the Orphanage, the Detective armed himself with a fire extinguisher through the kitchen. Proceeded down the halls. Flames were chest high and the smoke was too thick to see through. Fought way through several locked doors. One door was chained, the Detective broke off the Masterlock with the butt of a flashlight. Down the corridor the Detective found several other instances where doors had been locked. And in the center of the hall, rubble was covering a woman, burned severely. The children were dead by the time the fireman were able to subdue the flames. Only one child, hiding in the gymnasium had escaped the flames, she was found carrying the body of another child.

Fifty-two children and three adults died in the blaze. There was no evidence that the fire was deliberately set, but the State Government is in the middle of an internal investigation regarding the locking of the doors and the limited information provided to the children on what to do if there was a fire.

The Detective has concerns about the effectiveness of the investigative parties. The Detective is filing an appeal with the Commissioners office to explore a separate investigation.

Signed  
Detective Jonathon Fuller

Chapter One: The Kid that Rose from the Ashes

In the burnt field beside the ruined Orphanage, there was a tree that should be dead. The trunk was the color of slate. Its insides had been gutted by flames, with limbs that were husks, twisted and malformed with a terrible smell of sulfur. No leaves grew on the tips of the tree limbs, not a bit of life to be found, but for an organic boil that bubbled up from a crack in the bark. The substance was at first a drop, like a bit of oil squeezing through the surface of an oilfield. The bubble grew quickly, making a sphere of black sap. Within the sap, an even smaller organism had been growing, it had a shiny beak, a flash of eyes and sharp little talons that scraped at the membrane which contained it.

A swift slash of black claw and the membrane tore violently, spewing the fluid which ran in tributaries through the tree. When the Crow appeared, it felt an incredible hunger. He flitted about, expanding his wings to their full impressive span, shaking out his stark black feathers in the waning twilight. The dew or embryonic fluid, or whatever otherworldly substance clung to his body was shook loose with every flap and dip of his sharp beak, until he was comfortable enough to fly. And he took off from the black burnt tree he had been born from, cutting a path over a desperate scene, the charred remains of an Orphanage. A building that was as dead as its inhabitants. Still, the hunger persisted, cutting the Crow deep within, growing with each moment he sliced through the air.

The heartbeat was audible, though incredibly faint. His instincts guided him over and under the jetstream currents, through obstacles made by man, wires and partitions cutting out into the streets. The noise from below and around him was deafening, loud automobiles stinking from the street, yelling from people rushing about, gunshots in the distance like tiny explosions, and still, he could hear the heartbeat. The large bird swooped low into a grassy meadow, in the back of a large midtown church and pinpointed a spot on the ground where the heartbeat was the loudest. He landed, talons first on the soft grass, and smelled the cold real earth from beneath. Directly before him was a large stone statuette with scribbling and hash marks carved into its face. The words, the name on the gravestone had been chipped away, forgotten. The dirt was warm, full of burgeoning life, a strange sight adjacent to the hopeless graveyard. Flowers were sprouting and budding within seconds, worms and insects were squirming and jumping from the spot. The Crow bent low and snapped them up as quickly as they appeared, squawking with delight as he choked back the meaty little things.

A particularly meaty worm sprouted beneath a dandelion and the Crow quickly made an attempt to gobble it with his sharp beak. When the worm did not budge, the Crow tasted the ashy copper of blood and stepped back, raising his wings for the attack, readying his talons to tear at flesh. The tough worm had friends, nine of them, now clawing through the loose earth. A body rose and the Crow new that this was not a worm, but a finger, which belonged to hands and a person. He knew this person from somewhere; he was a young man, barely half the size of an adult. The clothes he wore were the tear away kind, nothing as beautiful as the Crow's own feathers. His body was badly scarred, but the more he struggled to free himself of the dirt, the more the wretched skin scraped off, revealing a milky white texture of porcelain human skin.

The child was thin, terribly emaciated, he could not focus on anything about him. He stumbled and tripped as much as a newborn fawn. Learning to walk as he fumbled about, the boy was coughing up fistfuls of dirt and grime from his newly pink lungs. He vomited whatever had been rotting in his stomach and pounded his fists against a stone cross to help him concentrate. The Crow walked along beside him, wary, not willing to fly away. He was magnetically drawn to the child, and felt concern for him. The Crow himself had just been born into the world, but the child was much more helpless than this pathetic human. His gangly limbs were not as majestic as the Crow's, standing upright was a struggle. The Crow felt pangs of sorrow for this boy, and instinctually knew that it was his mission to watch over him.

The boy was stopped at the cemetery gate, the moon glowed from high above as he reached his hand out, pushing at the metal. When it did not give way, the boy deliriously gripped the metal spikes and pulled. A great problem solver himself, the Crow gave his wings a few flaps, to rest on the gate. He looked over at the primitive machine, a simple latch system. The Crow bent down low over the gate and pecked at the latch. With a vacant look, the boy reached his hand down to the latch and lifted, letting the gate swing outward.

"Thank you Mr. Crow." The boy said weakly. "Do you know who I am?" 


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two: Amidst the Wreckage

The Crow was staring at him. It bobbed up and down as he unlatched the gate. The boy had no name. None that he could remember. He had a purpose. There was a reason for his existence. That much he knew. But first, he had to find the safe place, the haven, which called out to him. The Crow flapped to his shoulder and he buckled slightly under the weight of the bird. A small groundskeeper shed was ahead of him, which looked vacant. He had another latch in front of him, a normal bolt lock. The boy squared his hands on the door and concentrated, furrowing his brows together. He remembered how to open the bolt.

"I won't need your help this time." The boy said to the bird as he slid the bolt out to the right. The door creaked open and he found his way into the small utility shed. Gardening implements lined the wall, sawdust and manure attacked his nostrils and spider webs crossed the boy's face. A jumpsuit was slumped over a lawnmower with a pair of crud -covered work-boots at its side. The boy suddenly felt very cold and stripped his withered clothing away, pulling on the jumpsuit, and fastened the ties on the boots with a bit of difficulty, though his dexterity was steadily improving.

The Crow watched him silently, his eyes glinting in the streaked moonlight cutting through the shack's tiny windows. The boy looked at the Crow, both knowing they should move on, that he had to remember who he was to move forward. The Crow scratched at the window sill with his talons, and bobbed his head anxiously. Holding his arm out, the Crow jumped to it, fluttering its wings aristocratically.

Walking through the city in the dead of night, the boy felt some strength returning, but he had a strange dizziness, like fog covering his brain. With frequent stops to catch his breath and resting in shadows while scary cars slowly rumbled by, the boy finally made it to his destination. The Crow flew to a blackened tree and perched upon a limb, looking down at him knowingly.

"This is it? This is where you wanted to go?"

The boy surveyed a terrible scene. A burnt out building in a dilapidated part of town, behind it there were smoke stacks reaching high into the air coughing up plumes of snow-white smoke. The nameplate on the gate was covered in ash and the boy reached his hand up and wiped away the soot. In gold, the name read St. Helena's Orphanarium.

"I was an orphan." The boy muttered to himself, and felt it was right. He stumbled inside, breaking yellow police tape apart. Darkness covered the halls. Each step he took was in a half inch thick layer of ash. Wafts of burnt flesh and stone floated through the air and made him sick to his stomach, he was in a tomb, a death trap. Whatever happened in the Orphanage was a tragedy to end all tragedies.

He stopped in his tracks and looked to his right, a small room was cordoned off from the rest of the husk of a building. He took several steps and broke his way in. The Crow, which was riding on his shoulder flew to a bureau at the end of the room. Two small beds were charred and left unattended, the wisps of bed sheets with animal designs were nothing more than rotted paper. The boy gave the Crow a pet on the head and looked into the shard of a mirror at the bureau. His face was black, he wiped it with his sleeve and cleaned off the glass with the other sleeve. Green eyes stared back at him, as a sharp pain  
attacked the boy, striking his soul.

He caught flashes of a past. A girl in a blue dress coming through double doors. Friends playing soccer on the field. Pushing a tire swing under the big tree. Waiting as yet another foster family declines to adopt him. Sitting outside the Sister's officer, nervously glancing at his hands. The comic book store owner putting up yet another hand drawn portrait of his on display for all to see.

The boy cried out. He pulled the bureau down and slammed his head into the outside window, feeling the sharp glass pierce his cheek. The boy took the shard in his fingers and pulled out the jagged piece from his face, letting a geyser of crimson spurt.

He caught another series of flashes. A warm steak dinner while all the kids were smiling. Sitting in the dark under his covers and listening to the sounds of rain. A stolen kiss behind the schoolhouse. The pain of the rod striking his behind in front of the class. Opening Christmas presents with the other orphans. The screaming that night as fire raged and they couldn't escape.

The boy took the crooked glass and slashed at his wrists, letting the warm blood spill from his body. The Crow hollered and squawked, shaking his wings in immense disapproval. The boy watched in horror as the wounds he made in his fit closed themselves. He wiped the blood away and there was not even a scar left behind. The Crow flapped away and went down the hall, the boy chased after, his speed increasing as he scrambled over rubble and bits of wall and furniture that was tossed into the hall. It finally stopped, landing deftly at a large black spot on the floor and the boy felt his heart seize in his chest.

He remembered. 


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three: The Memories Flood Back

There was yelling in the hall. The boy went to the door, and looked out through the porthole window. He peered through the chicken wire mesh and found the head Sister screaming at a man in a patchwork coat. This man was not much older than a teenager with a close cropped hair cut and a sharp van dyke beard. He tried to open the door, but it was locked. The man struck the Sister, and she went down hard. The boy screamed for help within his room. The man turned his face and the boy saw his eyes. He was no normal man, his mind was sick, and he was smiling in an obscene way. The man in the van dyke reached into his coat and removed a plastic bottle, pulling off the cap with his teeth. With a chuckle he turned the bottle over and squeezed out a stream of fluid.

The boy screamed louder, pounding on the glass but the Sister was out cold. There was nothing he could do, to get to her in time as the man flipped open a lighter and flicked the wheel until a flame caught.

The flame was small, but enough for him to light a slip of paper. He opened the palm of his hand and the now flaming paper floated down like a flower on the wind, and rested on the Sister's blouse. It caught.

The boy looked around the room and remembered that he always had a way to get out. His secret passage, how he met Morgan most nights, when they talked and kissed and dreamed about the future. He ran to his wall, pulling off the paneling and jumped into the duct. She was in the adjoining room, his only way out. The windows were barred and reinforced, they would have to find some way out. She was in her room, still asleep in her bed. The boy rammed his shoulder into the grate and it gave way, dropping him into her room.

"Dimitri." Morgan awoke with a start and ran to him. She took him by the armpit lifting him off the ground.

"Someone attacked the Sister." Dimitri caught his breath. "He's going to burn this place down."

"What are we going to do?" She tried the door. "They locked us in!"

Dimitri scanned the room, and lifted an antique coat rack one of the sisters had given Morgan, who had a love of antique furniture. "I have to use this."

He took the heavy hickory base and slammed it into the window, cracking the glass at the first strike. "It's not enough." Morgan cried. Dimitri tried again, rotating his body as much as he could and cutting back, slamming into the glass until the crushed pieces cut into the chicken wire.

Turning back to Morgan he yelled, "I need scissors."

She nodded and Dimitri turned back to the window, looking out, the chicken wire would not budge, he checked on the Sister. She was burning, dead and the man was walking and whistling a terrible tune, moving down the hall, squirting the heavy wooden walls with his mystery accelerant.

"I've got it." Morgan put the shears in his hand and Dimitri jabbed a sharp end into the gap between the mesh and the window frame and cut until his hand cramped. The wire was strong but it gave way, and snapped with a pang. He got one, and looked back out into the hall. Yellow flame was running in a river down the hall. The shears were taking far too long, he stabbed again, and felt the searing heat traveling towards their end of the hall. Dimitri reached for the mesh and took it in his fingers, pulling on it. Mesh wire cut into his fingers and his hands became slippery with blood. Screaming out in pain, Dimitri walked up the door and placed another hand on the mesh, pulling with everything he could muster.

"What are you doing!" Morgan's voice was a mix of absolute terror and anguish.

"Anything!" Dimitri called out, just as the wire gave way, popping off one side and another until it was mostly off, hanging limp from the door. "Come on, we have to squeeze through."

Morgan was shaking, lost in the horror of the moment. Dimitri shook her and she focused. Stripping off her robe, she pulled herself onto Dimitri's outstretched knee in her tee shirt and shorts and slipped the top half of her body into the two foot square. The remaining mesh scratched her side and the both of them were well-bloodied. Dimitri gave her a final push and she dropped onto the ground.

"Dimitri! Hurry!" Scrambling into the opening, Dimitri more easily squeezed through the gap and joined her on the other side. The fire was growing dangerously, as it was now threatening to overtake the corridor. Morgan was standing agape, looking in the direction where the Sister had burned to death.

"Come on." Dimitri ran to the door across the hall, but the door was chained. Children were screaming at him from the other side. The fire had already seeped into the room. "We have to get the firemen here."

Dimitri pulled the fire alarm. But there was nothing. Morgan put her hand to her mouth, "They must have cut off the power."

The fire swept up the wall feet from them, and reached the ceiling, growing with mad randomness. "We have to go."

Dimitri took Morgan by the hand and ran down the hallway, coming to an abrupt end. The double doors were chain and padlocked, Dimitri pushed at the door and there was a gap just enough for them to squeeze through. Morgan pushed her head through and became stuck. The heavy doors closed in on her as Dimitri's strength faltered and she yelped in agony.

"No!" Dimitri put his body full into it, dislocating his shoulder in the effort. Morgan pushed her body through the slim gap, and the door closed once more. Dimitri lay on the ground, looking up, feeling the intense pain throbbing in his shoulder. Morgan opened the door from her end, propping her legs to keep the opening sturdy. Dimitri gathered himself and squeezed his legs through first, fearing that his dislocated shoulder would be so painful pushing through the door, he should save it for last. He shimmied his body until his waist was through and it happened, the beam above his head, which had been burning efficiently, broke loose and the inferno of a ceiling crushed on top of him.

The blackness which came next, told him he was dead. He lived thirteen years. 


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four: Embracing the Darkness

"Dimitri." The boy stood in the wreckage of his childhood home. "My name is Dimitri."

The Crow squawked with delight and Dimitri looked at him severely.

"You brought me back? You want to me to- what? To get revenge. To find the man that did this."

Dimitri took off down the hall and dove outside, remembering as he moved through the orphanage every feeling he ever felt. He could still hear the cries of the children as they were helpless in their final moments, succumbing to the raging fire. The police were late. The fire department was late. Everyone had abandoned them. Children abandoned by their parents. Given to the Church when the State could no longer house them. Abandoned again and again by the peeking faces of families looking for that perfect cute child that never seemed to be them. Helplessness. He died helplessly, lost and alone. Dimitri would never feel that again, he would never rely on anyone again. He would be the one to look out for their souls, to give them the one thing the universe could provide: Justice.

And he had power. Dimitri climbed onto the roof of the warehouse next door and jumped from one bar to another, feeling the taughtness of his body, the pendulum swing of the perfect motion as he flipped through the air to catch a ledge and leap atop the roof with room to spare. The Universe had given him instincts he never possessed in life, strength and speed he could never imagine. He was indestructible, and could move as fast by foot as his feathered friend could fly at his side. Dimitri perched finally, looking over the town, the decrepit City he knew as a boy from his barred window at St. Helena's. The place that had failed them. The city so lost, they could let one hundred children burn and keep on moving. There was no shrine erected in their memory, no Children's hospital named after them.

He would remind them who they were. After he was done, his reign of destruction would be enough that they would never again forget the children of St. Helena's. Dimitri closed his eyes and thought about the bird over his shoulder. In a moment he was looking out once again, but the world appeared different. He was the Crow.

From the Crow's perspective they took off together, soaring over the cityscape, swooping down back alleys. The Crow knew where to fly, following an invisible line that led them to the a narrow side street tavern. They landed upon a window sill and a duo of drunken pedestrians sneered at them as they hobbled past. They looked inside, watching silently as several groups moved about, mingling and drinking. As the crowd parted, The Crow could see the man, a sliver of a person with a van dyke beard. He sat before the bartender, speaking softly. The man behind the bar poured a drink warily and the firestarter slid the shot glass between his hands on the bartop, before pounding it back.

The Crow cocked his head, to listen in.

"You should take it easy tonight."

The man with the beard flashed the bartender with a menacing glance. "You should really keep your opinions to yourself."

"I was asked by your father to watch out for you. He doesn't want any more, you know, problems. I don't want him coming down on me if you go off half cocked again." The bartender crossed his arms.

"I've got to go to work." The man in the Van Dyke said, slamming back another shot. "And if you know what's good for you, you'll know your place."

He pushed his way through the crowd and broke outside, shoving as many people as he could along the way out the door. The Crow stuck to the shadows, fading in and out of the lamplight down the street. The man in the beard walked strangely, with the same sort of randomness in his step as had appeared in his wavering tone of voice. He had an undeniable madness in everything he did, which made him unpredictable and scary. The kind of man that belonged under heavy medication or under the watchful eye of a psychiatrist, the kind of man that could light an innocent woman on fire and laugh about it, Dimitri was the one that had to stop him.

He would be doing the world a favor, and put a monster out of his misery with as much compassion as one would put down a rabid dog. Dimitri returned to his body as The Crow broke the contact. Somehow, the bird knew exactly where to go to find the man; he had proven himself more useful than a GPS tracking system. His abilities were Dimitri's greatest asset and there was no denying that The Crow was responsible for him coming back to the world of the living. If he were lucky, he could finish it tonight, and he would return to his slumber, to that dark place that was both lonely and reassuring.

Dimitri stood at the rooftop and ran, letting the power of his agile body surge through him and he coiled, jumping far from one ledge to the next, making the distance as easily as hoping from one step to another. His heart pounded as he felt himself coming close. The man with the Van Dyke was walking out of a small store around the corner from the bar. He was speaking in hushed tones on his cell phone.

"Yes, Father. Mr. Libitz said he would sell. Two more buildings and you own the city. I hope you remember which son it was that gave you this town. Not the one in your ivory tower, not him. The bastard one. Me." The crazy little man faltered emotionally as he listened to his father's response. "I don't mean that. I'm sorry father. I'm sorry father."

He disconnected the line and leaned against a mailbox, looking depressed and drunk. His unfocused eyes looked across the road, to the man sleeping underneath the 10th street overpass. The area of the city had completely crumbled away under the vicious reign of mob bosses and economic depression. It was a land ripe for the picking, for businesses that wanted to recapitalize and for the cruelty of man against man. Dimitri watched his prey stalk the homeless man, watched him move slowly across the damp street, kicking aside beer bottles from his path as he removed a small orange squeeze bottle from within his long wool coat. The old man was filthy, covered in strips of cloth that were little more than illusion of warmth. His breath came out in cold hampered puffs of white fog, his lungs echoing in distress, a sure sign of emphysema. A man in his condition would probably not last more than a year at most in such a place.

But, he was seconds from death. A few more terrible breaths was all the he had left in the world. His sleep would be disturbed the intense feeling that only fire against skin could provide, to breathe in the ash of his own burning flesh before he passed on. Dimitri could imagine no worse a death than that, and having felt it once himself, would not allow it to happen.

Johnny Matchstick. He was given the name when he was eleven years old. Johnny never thought much about it, and he never denied that if fit his personality. He had been in love with the magic of the dancing flame since he was a very small child. Watching the element dance from place to place, living so briefly and for such solitary purpose as to destroy, fire was the ultimate entity. And Johnny knew he had to respect it, and revere it, and if he could, allow it to control him, to enter him and be his private god.

To honor his god, there was only one way to truly show the Flame who he was. It meant burning, searing flesh and charring the lifeforce of others. It made him strong, made his father love him, even if the man could never say it. He didn't like to burn buildings, a building could not scream or writhe or do the dance the Flame needed. A building never wanted the warmth of the fire and it did not fear the dark. A building had no soul to merge with others he collected. A building could be rebuilt, but not a body. It could not be pieced together, it would forever perish.

Johnny Matchstick unscrewed the top of his bottle and smelled the glorious scent of his special concoction, a perfect blend of accelerant and clean burning alcohol. It was a special blend of chemicals, done in the right measure that was completely untraceable by modern Fire Marshalls and CSI's. A gift from his father's company, a special product with only one purpose, the further exploration and spiritual enlightenment of the old man's bastard son, the one born from his Stripper mother, the first unwilling victim of the pyre.

The old man in front of him was an impure thing. A terrible deviation of the true spirit of what humanity could become, a wayward soul on the way to enlightenment. Only one thing could cure him of his filth, and the Christians had it wrong with their blessed tap water. It was fire, the burning tongues of the God's themselves.

The oldest religions in the world knew to respect the awesome creature. It was the symbol of man's progress from monkey to what they were today, and Johnny Matchstick, the first and only priest of his twisted mockery of a religion smiled as he squeezed the orang bottle, releaseing a stream of the pure chemical onto the man's tattered clothing. The kindling for his perfect flame, the catalyst for his final step into purity, was distributed all over his sleeping body.

Even if the man would not be able to thank him, his soul would be free, and would belong always to Johnny.

Johnny Matchstick never used matches. The little pieces of wood were always too easy to track, any good arsonist knew to use a butane lighter or a zippo. Johnny's was given to him by longtime friend and mentor, Joey Riguelo, the papers referred to him as "The Human Torch", responsible for the longest string of unsolved fires in the city's history, a record that Matchstick never wanted to take from him.

Again, he was never interested in burning buildings. If one happened to go ablaze, it was what the fire wanted, not something Matchstick planned for. Matchstick flipped back the top of the silver-plated Zippo lighter and spun the wheel by brushing his thumb over the flint. A small and perfect fire caught and stood straight up, wavering in the soft wind.

"I purify thee." Matchstick bent low and brought the flame closer to the sleeping indigent, feeling excitement, unable to contain the scary joy he got from doing what he knew must be done. He anticipated the sounds, the pure voice of the burning man, and as he reached his fingertips, with the flame begging to merge the old man's soul, the fire blew out.

Johnny Matchstick lit it once more, frustrated, rolling his thumb again over the flint. When it caught he rushed the flame, pushing it towards the old man, aching for it to happen, but the stray wind blew the yellow god away.

This time, Johnny turned to find a little face peering back at him, eyes wild in humor.

"Boo."


End file.
